


The Canary that Swallowed the Cat

by Yurusarenai



Category: Looney Tunes | Merrie Melodies
Genre: Cloaca, Come Inflation, M/M, Macro/Micro, Revenge, Size Difference, Violence, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21617722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yurusarenai/pseuds/Yurusarenai
Summary: Granny changes Tweety's bird feed, and it triggers a growth spurt. Sylvester reasons that's just more bird to munch on, right?Wrong.
Relationships: Tweety Bird/Sylvester Pussycat
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	The Canary that Swallowed the Cat

**Author's Note:**

> This was a commission for the most lovely Fan. I hope you enjoy, as I had a lot of fun writing it!
> 
> **This work contains graphic imagery of sexual violence and death.** I don't care if you clicked on this because it sounded absurd, if that's going to offend you maybe you should go outside or read a book instead.

When Granny came home from the store, she was expecting a normal evening. Maybe she would indulge in knitting by the fire or relaxing in bed with a good detective novel. Perhaps she anticipated some trouble with her pets, since they were always fighting, but in a way that, too, was mundane. 

She certainly never anticipated carnage.

The first sight that greeted her as she swung open the door was Tweety’s cage suspended over a vat of bubbling oil. Sylvester had constructed a Rube Goldberg machine, complete with working miniature windmill and a to-scale model of the Statue of Liberty, that was designed to batter and fry a tied-up Tweety Bird.

Business as usual. Really, if these animals could stop fighting for two seconds, they could probably cure world hunger. In fact, she’d gleaned more than a handful of patents just by submitting the strange and circuitous deathtraps they built for each other. 

“Sylvester!” Granny gasped. She snatched up the broom she kept by the doorway for just such occasions and promptly gave him a dressing down with the business end. The cat yowled and grumbled and slunk off to another room. 

“You poor little thing,” Granny cooed, untying Tweety and dusting off the patina of fry batter that covered her pet. “Don’t worry, Granny’s here to make it all better. And I have a special treat for you!”

The truth was that they were out of Tweety’s normal food, so she’d gotten one of those new-fangled GMO-fortified ‘complete nutrition’ brands that she normally avoided like the plague. They were expensive, and frankly she couldn’t read half the ingredients on the label. However, as she plinked the brown pellets into the bowl, Tweety let out a cheerful song, the picture of pleasure, so it was worth it. She watched him bob about his enclosure, returning to the bowl time and again to scarf down another beakful.

“De-wicious!” Tweety sang to himself. Normally he was only a little peckish, but the new feed called to him, and he kept cramming it down. 

Granny chuckled at his avarice, thinking to herself that birds would be birds. She left to go about her business, putting away the rest of her groceries. As she bustled about, she hummed an old Eddy Arnold song to herself. Yes, a nice, quiet evening was just what the doctor ordered. She thought to herself of maybe drawing a bath, taking a long soak-

A distressed warble snapped her out of her fantasies. Immediately, she thought of Tweety being harassed by Sylvester, and she scurried into the front room to see what the ruckus was. Instead of cat-on-canary crimes, she witnessed-

“My lands!” she cried. “Tweety, what happened?”

Her once tiny bird had more than doubled in size, grown so large he was smooshed uncomfortably against the bars of his cage. 

“Gwanny, help!” he cheeped. “I don’t know what happened, but I’ve gwon so big!”

Tutting in concern, Granny helped him out of his cage. He fluffed his sunshine feathers, examining himself.

“Well, I suppose this just means you’re becoming a man,” Granny reasoned. “You were overdue for a growth spurt, anyways.”

The only one convinced of this was Granny herself. Tweety continued to flex and stare at himself in disbelief.

“For the time being, you’ll have to stay out here until I can buy you a new cage,” Granny said, returning to the kitchen to get dinner started.

From the dining room, Sylvester heard their exchanged and chuckled to himself. 

“Sounds like  _ casa Tweety  _ is undergoing renovations,” he purred. “Which means I oughta do the neighborly thing and offer him room and board in my mouth.”

Eager at the prospect of renting out stomach space, Sylvester leapt into action. Tweety was now a neon yellow target half as big as him. Fortunately, the bird still had the reflexes to dodge kitty’s claws, and there was a flurry of chirps and yowls.

“Hewp! Hewp me!” Tweety screamed, flapping like a stray bit of newspaper in a funnel cloud. He rushed to the kitchen, Sylvester hot on his heels, and the two danced circles around Granny. 

“Now that is  _ it, _ ” she screeched, smacking Sylvester across the ears with her spatula. “I have had it with you causing mischief. You go outside and you  _ stay  _ there until you’re ready to behave.”

Then she had him by the scruff of the neck and he was introduced bodily to the welcome mat outside decreeing “Wipe Your Paws.” Before he could even protest the unfairness of it all, the door was slammed in his face. Sylvester was left out in the cold, with no recourse but to press pouty face against glass window pane and pine after protected poultry. 

Through the breath-misted glass, he watched as Granny went about preparing dinner. For herself: some hearty stew. Spike the bulldog got a bowl full of kibble, and Tweety was allowed to peck his portion of pellets right off the kitchen table. He was big enough now to sit in the seat like a toddler, and Sylvester couldn’t help but drool at the thought of digging in to a bird that hearty. Forge a mouthful, right about now he was a whole Christmas dinner! And he got even bigger under Sylvester’s watch, undergoing another growth spurt until he was the size of the cat himself. 

That just made Sylvester all the more eager to sink his teeth into the little bird’s behind.

So that night, after Granny retired to her bedroom with a book the size of a bread box, he decided it was time to make his move. 

It was a good thing Granny had never gotten him declawed, because he used those portable shredding-machines to scale his way up to the roof. He crossed shingles still warm from the sun’s last rays, single-minded in his pursuit.

“Santa’s coming early this year,” he crooned, perched on the edge of the chimney. “Time to see if you’re on the naughty list or not, Tweety.”

Holding his breath against the cloud of ash and grit, he slid down the chimney. His nails made a sound like a knife against a whetstone as he slid, and it was fortunate old Granny was hard of hearing. He’d have to truly raise hell before she noticed.

Well, he figured that was only a matter of time.

Crawling out of the fireplace, he took a moment to dust his fur, raising a small black cloud like a funeral shroud that hung in the air around him. The living room was abandoned, Tweety’s normally occupied cage conspicuously bird-less. 

However, a clatter in the direction of the kitchen was an easy clue to his whereabouts. 

“Bird’s probably so scared of me he went and popped himself into the oven, resigned to his fate,” Sylvester mused. 

Eager at the prospect of oven-fresh bird, he crept on tip-toes to the doorway. He had expected a much bigger Tweety to be easy to spot, but this- 

This was something else. 

Tweety was now almost three feet tall, large enough to have no difficulty ripping open the container where Granny kept his food. He gorged himself on it, tipping it back so it poured down into his greedy beak. The worst part was the smacking noises he made, a sound more wet and vile than anything that should come out of a songbird’s mouth. 

This was the point at which any sane kitty would have taken a moment to reconsider their life decisions. Tweety was now bigger than him, and his talons and beak were every bit as wicked and sharp as Sylvester’s claws. However, Sylvester was no ordinary cat. He had  _ ambition,  _ damn it, and he wasn’t going to pass up on the opportunity to bag the biggest kill of his life.

So instead of making a strategic retreat, he pounced. 

Tweety turned to meet him. One taloned bird claw rose to block his path. Sylvester howled and pinwheeled his arms, as if he was the one with wings who could change his flightpath, but it was no use. Cat kissed claw, the introduction ending with Sylvester whizzing off in the opposite direction. 

Still yowling, Sylvester met drywall and kept going. He passed through with a sickening crunch, his passage marked with a true-to-life outline in the plaster. 

Fortunately, his feline nature meant he landed on his feet. As he screeched to a halt on the carpet, nails leaving long gashes along Granny’s prized Persian rug, Sylvester reconsidered his actions. He reconsidered a lot of things, every life choice that had led him to this point. 

It was too late to change course. He heard the click, click, click of talons crossing vinyl floor. Shaking like an epileptic on a wooden roller coaster, he turned to look. There, peeking through the Sylvester-shaped hole in the wall, was an enormous Tweety Bird.

“I tawt I taw a puddy tat,” Tweety growled, and his voice was now deep and echoing. All trace of the helpless little bird was gone. In its place were cold, hungry eyes.

Sylvester decided now was as good a time as any to fuck off, and he scrambled back towards the chimney. Tweety followed after. There was a crunch like a box full of cereal in a trash compactor, and Tweety burst through the wall in pursuit.

Just as the unfortunate cat was flailing to open the chimney flue, the canary crashed into him. All it took was a flick of long, curved claws and Sylvester was on his back, a talon on either side pinning his arms down.

Above him, the once-timid bird now huffed and groaned, thin wisps of spittle spooling out of his beak. His eyes were glassy and dark, like a fogged-up mirror after a shower. It was this abyss that Sylvester stared into, and it was this abyss that stared back.

He could have stayed like that indefinitely, locked into an eternal and terrifying staring contest with his prey-turned-predator, but a thick  _ splat  _ drew his attention elsewhere. Glancing down, he saw that Tweety was leaking. The puffy little pocket on his undercarriage was oozing a potent cocktail of juice. The technical term for it was cloaca, but Sylvester was no biologist. All he knew was that it looked foreboding. 

As if sensing his trepidation on a primal level (or maybe just seeking relief) Tweety squatted over Sylvester. The inflamed orifice came closer and closer, all the while dripping a slow patter across Sylvester’s fur.

He inhaled, fully intending to scream bloody murder. However, his mouth, nose, face, were quickly blotted out, fully eclipsed by cloaca. Suddenly there was no air. Liquid, though, there was plenty of that, enough that he felt like he was drowning. A little of Tweety leaked down him, filling his nasal passage and trickling towards his lungs. 

He had always wanted to know what the little bird tasted like, and now he was getting enough first-hand experience to kill him. 

With his arms still pinned down, he could do little more than twist and thrash as Tweety ground against him. A sound, something that might have qualified as song if the bird’s vocal chords hadn’t grown so grotesquely, reverberated in the air, overriding Sylvester’s muffled screams. 

Bit by bit, Tweety’s thrusts picked up. Sylvester realized he had company in that squelchy little pocket as something hard poked at his eye. Like prodding a corpse with a stick, something pushed at him again and again, slowly forcing his face out of the cloaca. It was only when he was finally out, capable of taking a few blissful breaths, did he see it for what it was: a dick. 

Like a flower blossoming under the blush of dawn, arousal had caused Tweety’s dick to unfurl from his avian orifice. Now it was staring Sylvester in the face, head to head.

That was when Sylvester began to scream. His mouth was free now, he could get air, and he wailed like a siren. Even as Tweety forced himself down again, tried to plug up his mouth with leaking cock, kitty called out loud enough to wake the dead.

There were no dead in the house (not yet), but Granny and Spike both heard his plea. 

Spike came first, tearing into the room on bulldog-bowed legs, snarling up a storm. He was in full guard dog mode, incapable of any thought besides finding the intruder and eliminating them. When he saw Tweety, his canine mind didn’t even register him as an occupant of the house. An easy mistake, since Tweety was now so monstrous. 

Mouth wide and roaring, Spike leapt forward.

He never stood a chance. Tweety’s beak was like machete cleaving through thick jungle undergrowth. It met Spike’s skull and kept going, the sound like a bat colliding with a baseball. With all the force of a homerun, Spike hit the floor and stayed down. However, Tweety wasn’t satisfied. He kept pecking away, revealing bits of white skull with every collision of beak. 

Seeing this distraction as his golden opportunity, Sylvester picked himself up and skedaddled. He fled towards the one place he anticipated refuge: Granny’s room. Surely if anyone could stop the beast’s rampage, it would be her.

Granny was still in bed, alarmed by the noise but too frightened to investigate.

“Oh Sylvester, what’s happening?” she gasped, rheumatic fingers clutching at her chest. 

“If anybody asks, you didn’t see me!” Sylvester replied, darting under her bed. 

Granny didn't even have time to express her confusion before the thunderous tromping of Tweety's feet homing in on her room signalled his approach.

"T-Tweety!" Granny cried as his enormous head peered through the doorway. "My Lord, is that really you?"

Her concern was understandable, since Tweety's normally dandelion-yellow face was awash in canine viscera. He looked like a blood-splattered smiley face, his expression a grim mask of deadly glee.

He attempted to poke his head through the door but his skull was now wider than the doorframe. Suddenly malicious mirth turned to frustration. With an incomprehensible snarl that wouldn't have sounded out of place on some Triassic denizen, he rammed himself into the door. His cranium made for successful battering ram, and he forced his way inside.

"Oh my, oh goodness, stop this at once!" Granny begged. "We've got to get you help. I'll call the vet!"

If Tweety heard her, he gave no sign. Instead he trundled forward, flag-sized bird tail waving behind him. 

Perhaps it was a whimper that gave Sylvester away. Whatever the case, Tweety knew exactly where he was, and wasted no time in lifting the bed aloft with Granny still supine on it.

She screamed. Sylvester screamed. Tweety chuckled. Some flecks of Spike fell from his beak in the process.

As Tweety sat the bed to the side, Sylvester began to beg.

"Let's not be too hasty," he reasoned. "After all, I can't give you what you want if I'm dead."

At this Tweety rumbled and fluffed his feathers, intoning in a playful voice, “Bad, bad puddy tat finks he can bawgain wif me. Bad, bad puddy tat needs to wearn his wesson.”

And then he pinned Sylvester in place with feathers like blades. Sylvester shrieked. Then, when Tweety pressed the head of his cock to Sylvester’s entrance, he shrieked more. All his pleas fell on deaf avian ears as Tweety forced his way inside.

Granny mirrored Sylvester’s hysteria, clutching at her chest as a scream left her mouth. She watched her two beloved pets locked in painful embrace, and it sent her mind into upheaval. The poor woman had no recourse put to stumble backwards, seeking escape. Tweety’s engorged form still blocked the doorway, so she turned tail and fled into the adjoining bathroom. She slammed the door behind her, hoped wood would act as barrier between her and the horrors on the other side.

It didn’t. Even as her sobs echoes around the tile, she could hear Sylvester’s pleas for help, Tweety’s multitude of groans and grunts. They played in loop- unending, cyclical torture. It was as if the interior of Granny’s head was being invaded, no space left where she could escape.

Trembling like a leaf, her eyes searched for some miracle aid. Unfortunately, the bathroom was bereft of  _ deus ex,  _ and the only thing her gaze lingered on was her own reflection in the mirror. The face staring back was so twisted in horror she might have mistaken it for a stranger. Her eyes were haunted, and even though the mirror image was right in front of her, she felt see-through, without substance.

There was a one-two beat in the background, the syncopated slap of flesh on flesh. Granny had her fair share of sensual experiences, was no stranger to the sound of sex, but what she overheard bore very little resemblance. It sounded more like torture. 

Sylvester let out a long groan, a sound like the mournful howl of wind in the mountains. Tweety warbled to accompany it. The little songbird may have been one hundred times larger, his voice now a thunderous bass, but every word he spoke carried the cadence of song. Like a siren singing about destruction, it was hypnotic to listen to. She recognized the melody as the one Tweety used to sing as just a wee hatchling, but now the words were changed.

_ I’m a tweet big ol’ birdie free o’ my cage _

_ Tweety’s my name but I don’t know my age _

_ I don’t have to wowwy and dat is dat _

_ Cause I’m bigger dan any dead putty tat! _

In Granny’s room, Tweety punctuated every word with a thrust. It was as if Sylvester was his personal sound machine, rigged to accompany him with screams of pain and violence. Every move forward caused more yelps, more whines.

As Tweety fucked, he grew. Bigger and bigger, an ever-rolling expansion of feathers like an endless stretch of daffodils. To Sylvester’s eyes, it was as if he faced death and saw to the other side, saw Elysian fields awaiting him. At this point, he welcomed it. 

In all his many escapades, he had never encountered pain like this. It felt as if he had swallowed a pipe bomb, set to explode in slow motion. The  _ thing  _ inside him kept expanding, stretching him past the point of breaking. He was broken, broken, Humpty Dumpty pushed from his perch. Nothing could put him back together again after this. 

“Please stop,” he begged, each downthrust of Tweety’s cock forcing the words out of him like he was a thrift-store accordion. “Please, I’m dying!”

“But you wewe always so eager to put me inside you,” Tweety crooned. “I’m inside you now!”

His last meal, forced down the wrong end and devouring him from the inside out. The only thing Sylvester could taste was blood in his mouth from biting his tongue. 

It felt like forever in Tweety’s embrace, felt like the damn bird would never finish. Perhaps he was taking his time, purposely delaying his pleasure to extend Sylvester’s suffering. Whatever the case, it was time enough for Sylvester to project out of his body, snap back sharply, exit again, a yo-yo of pain-induced dissociation. 

Finally Tweety’s arousal peaked. Sylvester felt like a firehose had been shoved up his ass, a blast of liquid powerful enough to make him wail. 

“Howd still and dwink all your medicine,” Tweety ordered.

It was like he was making love to Niagara Falls for all the fluid that poured into him. It gurgled up his intestines, flooded his stomach. He was more than distended. He swelled like a water balloon in the hands of an over enthusiastic 1st grader, becoming almost spherical with the excess. And through it all, he could do no more than scream.

And the thing keeping it all in, bottling him up like vintage wine, was Tweety’s dick. With the monster appendage still lodged in his entrance, the ejaculate had nowhere to go, just swirled around, an uncomfortable mess in his stomach.

One feather poked him in the middle, watched the way his body pushed and gave around the pressure. He was an amorphous entity, more suggestion of cat than shape of it at this point, and Tweety tapped a rhythm on his stomach. He sounded like a half-empty canteen falling down the stairs for all the sloshing that went on inside him. This elicited a childlike giggle from Tweety.

“Mm-MM,” he said, tongue flicking out along his beak, “Cweam filled is my favowite!”

And that same beak was a cavernous maw, craning wide and endless above Sylvester. It was as if the sky had cracked open, the vast emptiness of space localized above his head. But instead of a light at the end of the tunnel, there was dangling uvula, waving to him gently.

Sylvester had eaten his fair share of unfortunate creature. While Tweety had forever eluded him, he had devoured squirrel and mouse and all manner of woodland creature. Never before had he stopped to consider the horror of a mouth descending around him, of the mechanics of being eaten. He hoped it would be swift. He feared it would be painful.

The beak closed. However, it wasn’t the sudden  _ shnk  _ of a guillotine falling into place. No, Tweety was content simple to engulf him. The hard edges of beak pressed around his midsection, a threat of danger, but as yet he was still in one piece.

Apparently Tweety had never been told not to play with his food. His tongue swirled around the humid enclosure, laving back and forth across Sylvester’s fur. Like all cats, he had an aversion to water, and the sensation was very much like being caught in a rainstorm. Everywhere was wet, and he flailed out on instinct. 

His arms were no longer pinned to his sides, so he was free to unsheath his claws. Mustering a snarl, he lashed out, scraping against the inside of the beak. It was like he wielded rose thorns for weapons. Perhaps Tweety felt a prickle against the inner shell of his mouth, but it wasn’t enough to even make him stutter. Sylvester clawed and clawed, but not even sparks were proof of his fight. 

Indeed, his fight for his life was barely audible outside the immediate area of Tweety’s mouth. The most that could be heard was a light scraping, like a child scratching chalk against the sidewalk. 

The tongue wrapped around him, a snake encircling its prey. It was wet and squishy like a blanket made of seaweed, and it draped heavy across his shoulders. He could feel the alligator-skin texture of tastebuds scraping along his hide. Whatever flavor he was, it was enough to make Tweety hum in delight. The noise turned the tiny space into a vibrating echo chamber, resounding painfully in Sylvester’s ears.

The tongue squeezed tighter. Sylvester felt it like a too-tight hug, gripping his body. It was like being man-handled by an elephant’s trunk. Once it was firmly in place around his body, it gave an experimental tug.

_ Uh-oh,  _ Sylvester thought in distant horror. Because only now was he realizing just how incredibly stuck he was on Tweety’s dick. While he had felt every painful contortion, it hadn’t occurred to him that the end result would be him speared on a bit of flesh, stuck so firmly the bird was having difficulties prying him loose.

A tug.

And a tug.

And a tug.

And every time Sylvester felt the white-hot sensation of something dragging inside him. For Tweety, it was like a vacuum seal around his dick, and he jerked the cat back and forth like his own personal cocksleeve. 

Inch by excruciating inch, Sylvester felt the dick slide out of him. It might have been cause for relief, had this led to his release. However, as the dick slip out, he slipped in, further and further into Tweety’s mouth. The throat gaped in front of him, spreading wide in anticipation of swallowing him whole.

“No!” Sylvester screamed. “I’ll give you anything you want, you fruit for loops bird, just don’t eat me!”

Tweety didn’t respond. How could he, when his mouth was so occupied? There was nothing for Sylvester to do but wail as the dick pulled out of him.

In the bathroom, Granny was spared the sight of her two longtime companions tearing each other apart. However, nothing could block out the sounds. First pants and cries and gasps, followed by terrible silence as Sylvester went quiet. Now a sloshing, like a full milk jug being turned on its side and emptied.

She covered her ears. Old age had made her hearing worse, but it wasn’t enough to spare her from the wet, visceral sounds happening only feet away through the drywall. 

“Oh lord have mercy,” she said to herself.

If the lord she spoke to heard her, he gave no indication.

There was a wet splat, like raw meat thrown against brick, and Tweety hummed. Her little Tweety, who could always brighten her day. Who knew the bird was capable of such violence? He had always been a spirited thing, but it was the enthusiasm of an underdog, not the malice of a murderer. Or maybe there wasn’t a difference. Maybe every underdog was merely a psychopath without power.

Another patter from outside, like water dripping off the roof. It just sounded like so much, like a physically impossible amount.

“Sylvester, you poor old thing,” she whispered.

The cat had always been curmudgeonly. He wasn’t an easy animal to love, what with his fickle attitude and penchant for trouble. But that didn’t change the fact that she  _ did  _ love him. She certainly had never wished for violence against him, at least not to this degree. 

She had known of the strife between them and had done nothing, at least no permanent resolution. Even now, nothing was preventing her from going outside and demanding Tweety stop. Despite his monstrous visage, she still didn’t believe he would truly hurt her. But she didn’t. She stayed in the bathroom and listened to the sounds of fucking and carnage and violence.

She was a coward. 

Sinking onto the toilet seat, she buried her head into her hands and began to cry softly. Her gentle sobs weren’t enough to cover up the goings on. Maybe that was her punishment: to have to listen to the monstrosity taking place in the next room. 

However acute Granny’s suffering, it was nothing compared to Sylvester’s.

He hung half out of Tweety’s mouth, leaking jizz like a bucket with a hole in the bottom. While his face was trapped in a humid hellhole, his ass felt over-exposed. Maybe because his insides had been freshly irrigated, but he felt like there was a draft blowing directly into his core. 

Meanwhile, Tweety’s dick was still fully erect, refractory period a laughable joke under the influence of the petfood he had eaten. All his appetites were cranked up to max, his stomach rumbling even though he had stuffed it less than an hour ago. Indeed, if cat’s asshole was stretched, bird’s stomach was gaping even more, a blackhole that begged to be filled. 

Tweety threw his head back, turning his throat into a waterslide of impending doom for the feline. Sylvester dug his claws in, his last lifeline. In response, Tweety bobbed his head like a pigeon trying to scarf down an entire garbage can croissant. It jostled Sylvester loose. 

A Wilhelm scream emanated from inside Tweety. It was as if he had already absorbed Sylvester, incorporating the cat’s voice into himself. Torso and feet disappeared into pumpkin-colored beak, until only the tail poked out. It flicked wildly back and forth, pale tip a white flag of surrender. His nonverbal plea for mercy went unheeded. Instead, Tweety closed his eyes and let out a long, satisfied slurp. Like an errant noodle into the mouth of a hungry child, the tail zipped up into the beak. Like that, Sylvester’s last tether to the outside was severed. He fell down into that monstrous mouth. 

Cat hitting stomach had a more immediate effect on Tweety than orgasm. With a thunderous boom, he plopped onto the ground, practically gleaming in afterglow. One wing came up to knead his distended stomach.

Beneath his feathered skin, a plaintive sound called out. Poor Sylvester pressed up against his stomach, causing the surface to shift and distort. As commendable as the cat was, continuing to fight even after consumption, his efforts were obviously weaker. This was no longer tomcat fighting for territory, but weak kitten abandoned by the side of the road. 

Tweety resumed his kneading, as if trying to massage his tummy into submission. He kneaded and kneaded, and the pawing grew more and more subdued, like ripples fading away in water.

Finally Tweety let out a massive burp, loud enough to shake the house down to its foundations. As his beak opened, a pathetic mewl echoed out of the orifice. It was barely audible compared to Tweety’s call. Everything about the cat, even his last calls for help, were overridden. 

After the gastric explosion, silence settled over the house. A few minutes passed before Granny poked one timid head out of the bathroom door. She didn’t know what she expected to see. Perhaps she anticipated Sylvester’s eviscerated corpse. However, there was no sign of the cat. Tweety sat alone in the middle of the room, large, unmistakable, solitary. 

There wasn’t a single sound from Sylvester. For all his schemes and grand plans, in the end he was being digested like common bird seed. Already the acid did its work, reduced cat to unrecognizable jumble. A glumpy, grainy mess. 

After everything was said and done, Sylvester was no more than a pile of suffering succotash.

**Author's Note:**

> Death threats/"You're a terrible person for writing this!"/ etc. etc. may all be directed towards [my Twitter.](https://twitter.com/Yurusarenai3)


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